delirium
by venusianeye
Summary: you hate the summer fevver.


fact is fact and you can't make spade without a heart.

_- but, baby, heart's just a spade with the thorn snapped off._

* * *

two full moons and the strangest tide. and you fell into it like nothing doing, you fell soft and dark and helpless into that crimson pull, and you were in red and you were flushed like summer is, you were soft flower scents on hot night air, you were drowsy morning dreams and soft touches, you pressed a kiss to his crown and said:

_lovve me quick before i disappear._

and if you were flowers he was honey, and he stung your lips and drew tears for all you wished he drew hearts; when you hatched surely the sky whispered: _you will not be loved you will find no respite, no shelter here._

but summers were as summers did and you thought, perhaps, if you couldn't be happy perhaps you could love, and with that inclined idea you pretended to drown in his bathtub, alone in cool still water, dreaming nothing, watching scabs form, hot misery. (he thought you mad or sick, but you laughed your agony and told him,_ no, only fevvered.)_

were you mad? _something in the water?_ the sun asked you, pressed kisses to your wrists and knuckles, and you shook your head and he shook your body with nothing more than: _well._

_i told you, fevver,_ you cried plaintive, and indeed he said you were so warm to touch, warmer than ever, and _weren't you sick? _

_wweren't. _

_sure? _

_sure, _you begged, and his smile cracked the sky and you were kisses and stung lips and soft hands, long fingers, taking you apart at the coiled seams, and you were the smell of his sweat and the touch of his tongue, and it was new because you'd never taken time, with him, not prior (and perhaps not after) but bless you it was a balm.

sticky: fingers, spreading, soft touch on tender skin, a mouth on you, arms around you, and you wept, you dissolved, you were glazed stupid, you could only pull weak at him to beg for kisses. how many kisses would satiate? a thousand. and then a thousand more.

every inch of his fool face was for kissing, you'd figured it.

from time to time he left and left you dreaming him, bedridden and lonely, hands clutched on your aching chest, eyes squeezed tight, for oh, oh, you didn't want to touch you, or glimpse your body without having him beside you; it was sheer unholy.

he'd return, though, like the tide, he'd while along back to you, he woke you with kisses along your fingers along your gills along the ridge of your ear, and you laughed breathless and laughed piteous and murmured _please, sol, mercy. _

_ all right,_ he said, dark thick sweetness, and his voice was on your skin and in your blood and you wished to breathe it or taste it, you wrapped about him and wouldn't let go, you played limpet and you were limp to his hands, drowsy yielding.

slipped in you perfect, stretched you simple, kissed you weak.

you craved gravity, you bled for the weight of him on you, or you'd float off. a chest upon your chest, hands wrapped up in yours, his face pressed to your neck; he laid kisses on your skin, he moved in you and the universe halted as you breathed. not urgent, not gnawing, your hunger; simply a need for this.

_drag it out,_ you entreated first, but he laughed and pressed kisses to your wet eyes and murmured, _drag it out of you?_ and you crumbled like nothing in arms that anchored, and he watched you die a little and flutter back to him. his face was mute awe.

_havve me,_ you instructed when you'd caught your sense, bleary with pleasure; _keep going._

and he licked slow along your jaw and he obeyed, resuming; and you bit your own hand, and your hips twitched and shivered at him, and you wouldn't let him go, you wouldn't ever. (never.)

he was prospit, you were derse, all over the sheets and among your living skins; he carried you gentle to the sopor and you were light and boneless, weighing nothing; not tied or manacled with joint or limb, nor founded on cartilage as cumbrous flesh, but incorporeal as air, save only where he touched you.

there were no dreams, but longing.

_such a lazy prince,_ he woke you whispering; you curled about him, refusing separation, hobbling his walk and making him laugh. _my double-quadrant dear-thing._

and you murmured a dearth of things to him, hanging off his shoulders, clinging to his side, all distraction, yourself distracted, his smell his skin his heat all everything; and you were a palace, many cells, all singing all for him.

_evvery ounce yours,_ you promised, _evvery pound of flesh._

hands stroked your back, your legs, the expanse of you, and he frowned, shushing: _i'll take none. _

_not a piece?_ you wailed, distraught to offer, distressed to bargain; he took your hands and kissed each palm and told you:

_i'll have you whole._

pressed him against the pillows, and worship paid to every inch; every atom and all of him, your body an instrument for it, a prayer body. and he kissed you and coaxed you into him: _don't be idiotic, don't cry about it._

could not be helped, the crying, but leastaways the fire banked low that day; low enough for you to curl in and out forever, and a little while after. you were a skin peeling around an orange, cementing itself; you moved with the writ of heaven, you sloughed not off, but closer, you held his shoulder blades like you cradled the world. perhaps you did.

he made one little sound before he shivered out; you weren't aiming at it when it came for you, paroxysm surprised you in the way he blinked and melted, arching up to cling.

_i'll mourn this,_ he tells you between kisses, stealing breath and leaving a dizzy faint. you mewl, you sigh, you hold him close. and your sun, your sun blasphemes.

_casting me back?_ you fret.

he's adamantine. _never. _

_then mourn nothing, only wwait,_ you instruct. his eyes, red-blue, and luminous with love; his smile, his touch, his encompassing.

two half-moons and the tides change.

you wake sore, stiff, hungry.

you know no rush, no tender clench at his look or touch.

_not yet,_ he pleads.

_late, sol,_ you inform your axiom; collect your clothes in silence, stalk out.

he'll be black by winter, black and seething, a bolt of burning to crack the ice and keep you living. he will howl and rage and cut hatred down your back, and you'll sink in your claws and rip, and he'll lament for: _my matesprit, back. a day, an hour._

and you will laugh, but oh, your dread summer will come again.


End file.
